Rise of the Dark Man
by cactusx33
Summary: In the quest for the Dark Tower he knew death. But what if, as he had done before, he woke up in another world? This is the story of how Randall Flagg, the man in black, met a young orphan and changed the course of wizarding history forever.


**A while back I was watching a Celebrity Deathmatch episode with Stephen King and JK Rowling where they compared the Stand to the Harry Potter series. It gave me a good idea for a crossover!**

**[Insert disclaimer here]**

He woke, as he often did, with his boots on.

There was a sour taste in his mouth, and a lingering pain that he usually felt when leaping from one world to another. His death had hurt him. He had awoken from a nuclear blast with only a tingling sensation, but this termination had left after effects. His eyes pained him horribly, forcing him to crawl into some dark caves nearby to avoid the light. _Well, _he thought, _that's what happens when a giant Goddamned spider tells you to rip them out so he can eat them himself._

This stark memory of his death brought up another revelation; he was _alive. _Everything had signalled his doom. He'd died in a keystone world, but more than that-

Mordred had used his name. Walter Padick. He hadn't brought that name to light in fifteen hundred years. When Mordred had killed him, he hadn't killed Rudin Filaro, or Walter O' Dim, or Russell Faraday. He had ceased being Walter Padick when…well, when the Bad Thing happened, all those years ago as a young man travelling on the road.

He heard himself speak his original name and something else happened. He felt _nothing. _Walter Padick, the name that had reminded him that beyond his sorcery he was only a man, had lost his power. Which meant-

Which meant he was no longer Walter Padick. He had been a conjurer of great effects and user of great potions, but had only ever been a quasi-immortal. His magic had been flawed. Now…he was weak, he was powerless, but soon, he sensed he would not be.

He tried to assess his surroundings. He was by the sea. He'd woken up on a beach before, but this coast did not have the same tropical climate. It was cold. It rained frequently and he was forced to shelter in the caves nearby.

Every so often, he would see people walk by. He made a virtual home of the caves, retreating there whenever he feared attention. The people looked at him, this strange man with a denim jacket and cowboy boots, looking as if he'd come from the desert. The man with the dark expression, the hateful grin, the smile that threatened to eat the beholder's soul. But if they knew…if they only knew how apt their fears were.

He'd learned much about this world in the weeks he had spent alone, casting the power of sight into the small pools within the caves and on the sea outside, when he dared to emerge. In most worlds he entered, the magic he used was alien to it. He was regarded (mostly in whispers) as a great sorcerer, a man of arcane power. But this world had magic. Those who practiced it were called wizards and witches by their own kind. They used wands. What use was a wand? In this world, they seemed to provide a focus point for the user's power. He needed no such focus.

He was slowly regaining his strength. He caught sight of himself in the reflecting water. His eyes were alive with malice and pure, undeniable evil. His hair was grown to its former length and his smile made ripples in the water, almost as if the cave _itself _was afraid of him. He was also, slowly and surely, regaining his powers. He could do magic freely. He began to test his new powers on the crabs around him; their bodies jittered with raw current as he made a brief gesture with his hands. Soon, humans would writhe with the same agony as those useless crustaceans. When he had finished their torment and the crabs lay dead, he peered deeper into the water.

"I am Randall Flagg," he said softly, to no one in particular. Even saying his name aloud seemed to give him an added strength. He remembered, then. He remembered all the horrible things that he had done. He remembered Captain Trips. Crosses in the Mojave with drug addicts gasping in agony from them. King Roland of Delain writhing in agony, his son Peter framed for a brutal murder. He remembered the battle of Jericho Hill, Farson and the only being he feared more than himself, the Crimson King.

"I am Randall Flagg!" he said again, shouting. This time, the water visibly reverberated. Outside of the cave, a cold chill immediately blew across the beach. Flagg grinned horribly, drawing fire from his hands in a quick movement to illuminate his surroundings. That was when he heard the noise.

He immediately shrunk into the shadows, making himself _dim _to avoid detection. His magic had developed to the point where he could do it without spell or augment. He wasn't sure initially what the noise was, but he supposed the cave went on for miles. Still, he hadn't heard anything like that before.

It was footsteps. He became aware of that after only a few more seconds. Three sets. Three people coming down to his position. They were children; he was sure of that by the pitch. He heard voices after a few seconds more.

"What are we doing, Tom?" came the first voice. It was a girl, and she was definitely frightened. Flagg could hear it in her voice. It nourished him briefly; he _loved _fear in others.

"You'll see when we get there, Amy," another voice said. Flagg immediately took it for the harsh quality of the bearer. The voice only came from a child, but he immediately sensed power in it. This was a voice that made people tremble, much like his own.

"I'm scared," said another male voice. Flagg sensed fear in it also. Whoever this _Tom _was, he certainly knew how to inspire terror.

After a few moments, three small figures came into view, across the water and on the other side of the cavern. They were children, as he had thought. Flagg smiled. He could tell that the boy called Tom had something very bad in store for the other children. He was a pale, haunted looking boy. And there was a stink on him which braced the very nostrils of an interdimensional creature like Flagg. It was evil.

"What's your worst fear, Dennis?" Tom was saying. The other boy virtually slunk away under his gaze. "Your worst fear of all."

"I guess spiders," said Dennis. "They're horrible."

"Amy?"

"I don't like the dark," she whispered, looking around. "That's why I'm so afraid."

Tom smiled, and in the darkness Flagg could see the boy positively enjoying himself. He was relishing the fear of the other children. Flagg wasn't too sure what happened next.

The lights immediately turned off, and the four of them were left in pitch black. No light came in from the seafront, even though it was only late afternoon. Flagg, thanks to his custom of living in the dark, could see in front of him, but it was clear he was the only one. Then, an unholy scream came out.

"They're…_they're all over me!_" Dennis was screaming, an insane edge to his voice. "Ta-ta-ta-tarantulas!"

"Try not to struggle, it'll only agitate them," Tom was saying, enjoying himself. After a few moments of both children screaming in pure, evil terror, Tom whispered some unknown words and the lights returned. The spiders, hallucinations from the start, were gone.

Dennis and Amy went screaming from the cave, their minds evidently shaken by the visions. Tom was alone in the cave for several moments, and Flagg watched him with earnest. The boy was powerful and evidently had a strong evil, or at least cruelty to match. He could _use _a mind such as this. From what he had seen from his visions, there had not been a truly powerful dark wizard in centuries. The boy was only young, younger than ten, and yet he could instil terror when it suited him.

Only when he was truly powerful did Flagg seek power for himself. When it was prudent, he sought only the position of an advisor. A king or a ruler was open to the dangers of his people, whereas an advisor could slink into the darkness when their lord was overthrown. Although the Walkin' Dude did not see this king toppling.

He briefly considered his appearance. The demonic grin and denim would not be appreciated by this boy; he could see that. His powers over himself had increased. In a moment, the cowboy-booted Randy Flagg was gone. Instead, he stepped out as a truer form. One he knew this boy would appreciate.

He was Marten Broadcloak now. Both the name and the person fitted this world better than the Walkin' Dude. Now he was pale, with lank and greasy black hair and a cruel face. He was clad in a dark cloak with a hood. He did not truly transform himself; that was, always, beyond his reach. The lank, pale man was no different to the denim-jacketed, cowboy booted murderin' freak (as he had once been called) but no one would ever know. Smiling darkly, he stepped out into the light.

"Impressive," he said softly. The boy whirled around to look at him. "Very impressive."

"Who are you?" said Tom, his eyes narrowing. "I'll scream!"

"Like your friends did?" he said, smiling beneath the dark hood.

"Who are you?" the boy repeated.

"I think a far more relevant question is, who are you?" Flagg said, casually. "You who do such impressive displays."

"My name's Tom," said the boy. "Tom Riddle. What's your name?"

"I have many names." Flagg smiled. "If you like, you can call me Marten. Marten Broadcloak. Tom Riddle. I like it. Tell me, Tom Riddle. What are you doing out here?"

"They took us on a trip," said Tom, knowing it would be unwise to ignore the sorcerer's questions. "The orphanage. They said it would be nice."

"Wasn't nice for Amy and Dennis," said Flagg, suppressing a lunatic laugh. Tom, who interpreted his words as accusation, turned pale.

"You're not going to tell anyone, are you?" he asked, terrified.

"Why would I do that? People judge. They don't understand the power of force. They're too caught up in their pathetic notions of 'good' and 'evil'. It's how the weak try to dominate the strong."

"They don't tell us that at the orphanage," said Tom, his eyes shining almost as if he was being told some great and hidden knowledge. Flagg smiled a malicious smile under the darkness of his hood. He had sought his student well.

"Well, bear it in mind," he said, retreating to the shadows. He became _dim_. He saw Tom panicking and wondering, no doubt, if the figure had been his imagination.

"Where did you go?"

"Oh, I've got some things to attend to. But you haven't heard the last of me, Tom Riddle. You'll know me when you see me." He retreated from the cave and cast a spell on a small rock pool where the current broke. He saw the orphanage where the boy and his now-traumatised victims were housed. It was an archaic, unpleasant place, and in his visions he saw how unhappy Tom was there. Unhappiness could soon turn to anger, and when the anger came? He would be a force to be reckoned with.

* * *

From that day, strange things began to happen at Wool's Orphanage. Mrs Cole barely noticed it, but others did. A cold atmosphere would pervade, even more than usual, and the staff would _see things. _That was the best way to describe it. They would be working after night had fallen and a dark figure, usually in the shape of a tall man, would briefly appear in front of them. He would be seen all over the orphanage. Children and naïve workers would wonder if he was a friendly ghost, but wiser observers saw clearly that he was neither.

At night, whispers would be heard, mostly from Tom Riddle's room. Many wondered if he had gone mad and was talking to himself, or if another orphan was unlucky enough to be caught in his room. But whenever someone poked their head into his room, they would find him alone, completely silent. Perhaps they would think they saw a shadow in the corner or, perhaps, a crow flying away from the window.

In those dark and sinister hours before dawn, Tom was awake and talking. Flagg would teach him things, and his young student would absorb every word. Flagg taught him dark spells and curses, as well as ancient and horrific languages. In the daytime, the boy would demonstrate this knowledge on his other orphans, causing them to fear him. He showed those nearest to him only a small amount of terror he had shown Amy and Dennis, but they still avoided him like the plague for it. No one dared to confront him for fear of what he'd do to them. Flagg, jubilant at his student's successes at the dark arts, stood back in the shadows.

This hateful and remorseless child would become Flagg's greatest triumph. No one would ever fully understand the work he put in to his charges. In worlds where he was known, many assumed his machinations were simply a desire for power. That he had no greater ambition than to grant himself power. These fools knew nothing and never would.

The joys of serving as the power behind the throne had nothing to do with power. He had remembered his old lives before, in the different worlds. He had been standing in the background when the Ku Klux Klan campaigned the loudest, whispering into the ears of the Grand Wizards and local organisers. Fights had broken out and people had been hurt. Years later, he'd done much the same thing among the black militants, passing himself off as a light skinned African American man and watching as Messr X and the Honourable Elijah Mohammed stirred a nation of youth into a frenzy. They chose to inspire their followers into self awareness, but Flagg made sure the only outcome was violence. Once the violence had begun, the Walkin' Dude lived up to his name and left. He cared nothing for power, only relishing chaos. He _fed _on it. That one time he had taken power for himself, creating a state in the Mojave Desert after the world had expired? That was nothing to do with power. That was suffering, and the gleeful infliction of it.

Every so often, he needed the opposite of a ruler he could control. He wanted an apprentice. Kings could only be manipulated to a degree, but a protégé would do exactly as expected. He'd had several, but they had let him down, one way or another; Thomas of Delain had failed him spectacularly. Perhaps his most loyal follower, Donald Merwin Elbert, (better known by the spectacular title of the Trashcan Man) had openly betrayed him. Then there was Lloyd. Lloyd Henried. He was one of the only apprentices who had been loyal to Flagg in the end, but he'd been hopeless.

Tom Marvolo Riddle was not a weak or a traitorous boy. He was too driven by his own power, his own hatred, to fail in the tasks his mentor would give him. He would never show mercy or compassion, or any of the things Flagg regarded as failures. The best thing of all? His loyalty was nothing to do with friendship or any sense of having debts to pay. He would be loyal to Flagg because it suited his own interests. And the teacher wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

Several months after he had first travelled to the orphanage, Flagg had a special lesson for Tom Riddle. Usually, he saw him twice a week at the most, but this week he had seen him three nights in a row. He sat the boy down and addressed him more seriously than usual.

"A man will come to the orphanage tomorrow," he started slowly, "to see you."

"How do you know that?" asked Tom, cautiously.

"I've seen it in the water. And that's not important. What is important is what he wants to see you for." He cleared his throat, casting a quick glance at the door, in case anyone was watching or listening to them. "His name is Albus Dumbledore. He comes from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"Is he like you, Marten?"

Flagg narrowed his eyebrows. "Have I taught you nothing? My magic is not of this world. It is vastly superior. This Dumbledore _is _of this world. And if my visions are correct, he wants to invite you to his school."

"What could I learn there?"

"Many things, Tom," said Flagg, his eyes glinting with malevolence. "You are bound by the magic of this world. And what can you learn from it? A lot! I have heard whispers in my visions of darker magic than these average wizards perform." He leaned in to impress his point. "But you must do something. This Dumbledore is a naïve fool, but he has something of a…sensitivity to dark forces. It's of the upmost importance that you get into that school, so above all else, do _not _display any of the more advanced things I have taught you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I-"

"…If you are denied admission to Hogwarts, you will have failed me. Greatly. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Marten." Tom nodded.

* * *

Flagg did not meet Albus Dumbledore the next day. He vanished for several months, returning to the cave he had woken up near. He had to conserve his powers for the events ahead. He could not continue Tom's instructions as he was at the moment; Hogwarts had all manner of magical protection to stop unwanted intruders. So, once he found the best course of action, Albus Dumbledore would have meeting with the Man in Black.

"Professor, Martin Broadcloak," said Dumbledore, reading through a parchment. He and the sorcerer sat in the former's study. Outside, rain poured and thunder could be heard. Dumbledore did not like the look of the man in his study, and could see darkness in him. He continued to read. "Professor emeritus at Durmstrang, five years."

"That's right," said Flagg, staring deep into the man's face. Dumbledore, in a way many could not do, met his gaze openly. Flagg did not like that.

"You should understand first and foremost that our teaching styles are different to Durmstrang. Professor Dippet and I both want to impress that point upon you."

Flagg nodded. He wished he'd had the interview with Dippet instead; the headmaster sounded weak and impressionable compared to this…crusader. "I'm glad of that," he said quickly. "I found the material we were instructed to teach most…sinister."

"I can imagine," said Dumbledore, casting him a piercing look. He hadn't given this wizard enough credit; Dumbledore could see right through his façade. He was a tower of strength at Hogwarts, and would never forsake a good person in their time of need. But he could immediately see the malignant figure behind 'Professor Broadcloak' and that worried Flagg.

"And you wish to apply to be a potions master?" Dumbledore continued. "I have no doubt you are qualified." He put the parchment down. "Professor Dippet is keen for you to attend our school. I do believe this interview is a…formality."

"And your views?" asked Flagg, smiling. He wanted to make the wizard as uncomfortable is possible.

Dumbledore ignored the question and regarded him coldly. "Thank you for consenting to an interview, Professor. We will be in touch, as the saying goes."

Flagg departed his office, a sinister smirk hidden behind his now-raised hood. He would get the position; that was to be assured. Albus Dumbledore was not to be underestimated, but Armando Dippet was weak.

There were two people Albus Dumbledore had never trusted at Hogwarts. One was Tom Marvolo Riddle, and that had taken time. The other was Marten Broadcloak, and he had never trusted him from the first day they had met.

Both distrusts were justified.

* * *

Flagg was a dark presence at Hogwarts, as he had been at Wool's Orphanage. His Potions classes were dreaded by those unfortunate enough to find them on their schedules. He did not, as a rule, engage in the petty torments afforded to his position (such as corporal punishment and nearly-torturous detentions) that he would have enjoyed; Dumbledore was too powerful an enemy to allow harsh punishments to pass. Instead, he created a climate of fear, of encouraging his students to regard him as a malignant force. Those who had to drop homework assignments off to his study would see sinister volumes of lore surrounding his desk, complete with arcane symbols and crude drawings. More observant visitors thought they saw not just simple potions but horrific poisons in the darker corners of his room, and padlocked boxes that could contain any number of horrible concoctions.

His instructions of Tom Riddle became less frequent as the boy progressed through Hogwarts. He learned the dark arts quickly and he learned well. Flagg did not even need to use his grapefruit ball to see his pupil spend his hours in the cobwebbed corners of the library. At the same time, he started to draw what Flagg could only describe as a following. Weaker and more ambitious wizards, Slytherins especially, flocked to him. Tom, true to form, used his gang to instil terror in other students. He developed a hatred for many students, and Flagg noticed a strong display of hatred for those students at the school who were not born into magic. Tom's hate amused him. It could be driven to such great lengths.

One day, he decided on a different lesson for his pupil. They sat in the potion master's study as they usually did, talking of dark things. Tom was sixteen at this point, and had exceeded his master's expectations. Instead of immediately bringing out the dark tomes for his pupil to read, Flagg asked him one simple question.

"Whom do you hate, Tom?"

Tom was clearly taken aback. He shuffled uncomfortably for a few moments, as if trying to conceive the perfect answer.

"It's not an exam. Speak your mind."

"I don't know what to say," said Tom. "I hate many people."

"I'm going to tell you a story," Flagg said. "In a world far, far away, there was a man called John Farson. People called him all sorts of things. A traitor. A lunatic. They called him the Good Man, but a good man he wasn't. Part of the reason we got on, I suppose."

"What happened to him?" Tom asked.

"He created a rebellion," Flagg replied, not breaking eye contact with him. "There were these little kingdoms in his world, Baronies they were called. He wanted to tear them down and rule himself. Do you know what he had going for him? Two things, Tom. One was a lust for power, and the other? Pure hatred. He taught his soldiers not only to fight the enemy but to _hate _them, hate them with all the power of your heart and your mind. Out of his hate, he formed an idea. The idea to attack. And, do you know what, Tom? His rebellion succeeded." He looked at his student intensely. "So, I'll ask you one more time, Tom, and I want a straight answer. _Whom do you hate?_"

"I hate Mudbloods," said Tom, suddenly. It had been positively blurted out, but Flagg immediately sensed the feeling behind it. He smiled.

"A hatred bound in wisdom," he said, encouragingly. "They were not put on this earth to learn magic. Why _shouldn't _the pure, and…" he said quickly, remembering his student was half blood, "those who have at least a goof half of pure blood be among the first? The presence of Mudbloods at Hogwarts is a disgrace."

"Yes!" said Tom.

"You see how the hate flows? Now, I believe that your friends at school have a similar attitude to yours. Now, you all have been doing fine work at the school, but it has been…poorly directed. None deserve to face the wrath of the pure more than Mudbloods and blood traitors."

"Yes!" Tom repeated, taking in everything his teacher had to say. "There are far too many Mudbloods in this school. They deserve intimidation more than anyone!"

"Intimidation, yes," said Flagg, sounding underwhelmed. "Sometimes, intimidation is the perfect tool. But with an…epidemic…like the one at Hogwarts, I feel something more powerful is in order."

"Like what, Marten?"

"How is your parseltongue?" Flagg asked. He would have to phrase this very well if he was to avoid his student running out of his study in horror.

"I speak to the snakes near the woods sometimes," he replied. "They understand me. But they don't obey me. Not yet. Why?"

"There is something under the school, Tom. Something in the deep underbelly. It is extremely powerful, and can be harnessed by anyone who has the right gifts." He smiled, hoping the boy would be brave enough to accept what he had to say next.

"I'm going away from the school. Most probably within the next few days. You are cut out for a great purpose, Tom, and it's to my advantage to make myself scarce when it starts to reap the benefits. You won't see me again, not for a long while."

Tom, who had never had any use for emotion, did not feel any pangs of sadness at this comment. He merely nodded.

"The reason I have to leave…is because very soon, you are going to inflict such a pain on the Muggle borns at this school that they will most likely leave forever." He pointed a thin finger to the door. "Tom, do you know where the girls' lavatory is on the second floor?"

* * *

The day before the Basilisk was released at Hogwarts, a solitary crow flew away from Hogwarts in the early hours of the morning. Anyone who would have seen it at close range would have noticed a murderously happy look on its small and cruel face.

Professor Broadcloak was never seen again at Hogwarts. His study was empty when inspected, and a thorough search of the grounds (prompted by Professor Dumbledore, wary of trickery) revealed no traces of his departure. The mystery was talked about at the school at length; some believed he had accidentally ingested one of his own poisons, while others whispered rumours that he had strayed too far into the forbidden forest and had been killed by centaurs or spiders.

After two weeks of speculation and mild attention from the Daily Prophet, Marten Broadcloak was forgotten completely. That was, of course, how the magician operated; slip into the night when needed, and never be followed. Even Dumbledore, long after the other teachers had forgotten, struggled to remember the dark shape that had dominated the potions class for those years. He had not once believed his enemy's disappearance was an accident.

Tom Marvolo Riddle slipped quickly into his dark destiny, becoming Lord Voldemort and leading one of the most serious rebellions against the Ministry of Magic of all time. Even he forgot his old teacher in time. Flagg, for his own, part, was disappointed when Tom had closed the Chamber of Secrets, but his respect for his prodigy grew. He was delighted when he learned about Horcruxes. As the Death Eaters began their campaign against Muggles, he watched from afar.

The chaos he had helped create gave him power. To cause misery was not only his great joy, it actively strengthened him. Part of him wanted to take part in the war himself, but common sense told him it would be better to stand back and admire his handiwork from afar.

Despite his disappearance from the wizarding world, Dumbledore did think of Flagg again. At that time the man in black was travelling, by foot and by crow, around the world, inflicting and influencing the petty cruelties that sustained him. He had not set foot near Britain.

Dumbledore was reminded of Flagg in an interview, many years later, with a young divining witch called Sybil Trelawney. She seemingly had no sign of what was referred to as the Gift in the seer's parlance, and Dumbledore was set to refuse her application, she lapsed into a trance. At first, the usually trusting professor thought it a last ditch effort to avoid a rejection, but as she gave her prophecy, he saw her eyes.

After his death, many years later, those that remembered Dumbledore would speak about not only his bravery and his kindness but also his phenomenal intelligence. In truth, they knew little of how remarkable his brain was. Dumbledore saw things that even the great minds of the wizarding world missed. That was why, when he met Flagg, there were only two things he had ascertained from the dark man; that he was evil without measure, and that he came from a different world. He had protested at length to Professor Dippet against hiring the man, but his pleas had fallen on deaf ears.

When he had tried to peek into Flagg's _true _world, he had heard only vague whispers of towers, roses, gunslingers and a place called Gilead. That was not the world Trelawney had come under the influence of, but it was close. She also remembered very little of where she'd been during the prophecy.

She had been in a field of corn. She had been sitting upright when she slipped, but when she awoke she was laying on the ground. She picked herself up slowly. The cornfield seemed to go on for miles, and she walked aimlessly trying to find a way out. That was when she heard the music.

It was a soft, melodic piece, played on an old guitar by experienced hands. There was something immediately soothing and warm to it, and Sybil was drawn to it. Eventually she saw a house in the distance. House, perhaps, was too grand a word; the place was more like a wooden shack. But it seemed like the most comforting place in the world at that point.

There was an elderly black woman on the porch, who was the source of the guitar music. She strummed with the peace of age but seemed immortal. Two men sat on either side of her, talking. Sybil sensed more people on the other side of the house. One of the men seemed young and wore seemingly expensive clothes, the other dressed as a farmer, including a straw hat. The man in the straw hat nudged the old lady and she turned to look at Sybil.

"Well, good evening, child!" she said warmly in an American accent. "Glad you could come and listen to my playin'. Save for Larry and Ralph here, I don't get much of an audience!"

Sybil smiled weakly and the old woman slapped herself on the forehead. "Oh! But where are my manners? My name is Abigail Freemantle, but folks 'round here tend to call me Mother Abigail. These two fine gennlemen you see before you are Messrs Larry Underwood and Ralph Brentner. I'd introduce you to Nick and the others, but they're picking corn."

"Are you…"

"Dead?" Abigail smiled, as if she could read Sybil's thoughts. "Yes, child, all of us dead. And in service to our Lord, no less."

"My name's…Sybil," she said quietly.

"I know, child. I know a lot of things, don't you know?" She smiled benignly. "But you'll have to forgive me, I forgot to even tell you why you're here."

"Why _am _I here?"

"Great deeds have already happened. Great and terrible deeds. More terrible deeds will follow, I fear ter say." She shook her head. "And great things _need _to happen, child. The one you call Voldemort-"

"We don't say his name."

"The one you call 'He who must not be named' has a counsel. The man you are speaking to has been in his presence. He refers to him by a name that ain't his."

"You know this man?"

"Mayhap I do. Mayhap I _never _knew him, child, the real him, that is. The man I knew, and the man that nearly destroyed everything all of us held dear, called himself Randall Flagg."

Sybil Trelawney felt a brief chill at the mention of the name, although she had no idea why. The well-dressed man on the left spoke up, speaking in a New York accent.

"It's true," he said, softly. "Now he's in your world. But called something else."

"But doing just as much damage, if you believe the wind," said Mother Abigail, wisely.

"What can I do?" Trelawney asked, almost whispering.

"Do?" Mother Abigail threw back her head and laughed. Forgive me, child! Because you see…you're already doing it." She stopped laughing and explained. "You probably don't think so, but you are gifted with God's gift of the sight. You call it being a seer, or whatever the heck that is, but some folk on our world call it _shining. _That's why you can see our world. And while you're here…you're giving a prophecy."

Sybil didn't have any idea what she was saying, but from what she heard from other seers, one never did. Mother Abigail continued. "I'm going to say goodbye now, child. Dark times are to come. You will see me one more time."

But before Sybil could respond, the cornfield faded from her view and she was back in the Three Broomsticks. Albus Dumbledore, sitting across the table from her, looked disturbed.

Sybil Trelawney did, of course, speak to Mother Abigail one more time. It was then she made her second and final prophecy on the Dark Lord. As she grew older and served at Hogwarts for many years, she forgot all about the old black woman and her cornfields.

* * *

Despite wiping him completely out of his mind, Lord Voldemort saw his old teacher one more time. It was after his fall, when he was drifting without a body throughout the forests of Albania.

He felt as soulless as he was. He would drift, blind yet with sight, through the darkest corners. Animals would shy away from him. The ones that did not, he used his energy to enter. They did not last long, their pathetic live forces draining within hours. He cared little for that. They sustained him, even for that brief period that he needed it.

In the darkest part of January, when the wind blew pure ice, he saw a crow watching him as he prepared to possess a snake. It did not shy away from him or get drawn in. It merely _watched _him.

The crow flew down and settled on the ground. In a moment, in a way Voldemort could not explain, the crow…changed. Now, a man was looking at him. He wore tattered jeans and dusty cowboy boots. Over a black shirt he wore a faded denim jacket with buttons over the left and right breast pockets. The right breast button was a yellow smiley face. The left was a pig wearing a policeman's cap. Below in red that looked like blood were the words 'How's your pork?' The man's pockets were stuffed with leaflets and pamphlets as well, but Voldemort could not make them out.

The man was grinning at him. It was a horrible grin, and a more human part of the Dark Lord thought that if his soul was not in tatters, the grin would have tainted him at that very moment regardless. What he found especially strange was that the man was staring _straight at him. _In his formless state, the humans that strayed into the woods never saw him. They felt a brief chill but kept walking. This man was staring right into his very eyes (or would have been, if he had eyes) and was not terrified in the least.

"Hey Bobby Terry, you scrooowed it up!" the main said, menacingly. "Actually, I joke. You did…pretty good."

"Who are you?" Voldemort asked. Even he could not answer how he had spoken those words, and how the man had heard them.

"Oh, don't give me that. You know exactly who I am, _Tom._"

"Marten?" Voldemort asked in surprise. "It's you?"

"You bet, buddy, but I don't go by that name any more. And you can probably see how much I've changed my looks. Call me Flagg. Randall Flagg."

"Have I failed you, teacher?" Voldemort asked, coldly.

"Actually, not really. Who could have predicted a Gods-damned freakin' love sacrifice?" He shrugged. "Don't let it get to you, Tom. It's _Ka. _You don't really know it in this world, but it turns just as the crow flies. If you'll, ah, pardon the 'ole pun."

"Why have you come here, teacher? To gloat?"

"Partly," said Flagg, laughing. "Suppose I got a lot to gloat over. You see me? You see how vibrant I am? That's you. That's _you, _Tommy my boy, and all the trouble you've caused. It…feeds me."

Looking at him, Voldemort could see it was true. Flagg was looking more alive than he'd ever looked when he was Marten Broadcloak. He was imbued with a great power. "Why else did you come here then?" he finally asked.

"Hope," he said sincerely. "You're not done yet, Dark Lord. Now, you might be rovin' around in that non-corporeal form of yours for a while, but rest assured." He smiled. "You _will _get revenge."

Voldemort, instead of retorting, was silent. "Thank you, teacher." He did not feel a pang of emotion at what was no doubt his last meeting with the man in black; he had lived his life without it. But he appreciated what the man had done for him.

"What will you do now?" he asked.

"Me?" Flagg replied. "I've got things to do, don't ya know! Misery to cause, kingdoms to topple…all of life's rich tapestries!"

Grinning once again, the man who would be once and forever known as Randall Flagg left his apprentice. As he departed, he sung a song under his breath. It was not of this world, and Lord Voldemort would never have recognised it even if it was. The man who had sung it was partly responsible for destroying him, many years and many worlds ago, but the dark man had to admit; it had a tune to it.

"I didn't come to ask you to stay all night,

Or to find out if you've seen the light,

I didn't come to make a fuss or pick a fight.

I just want to tell me if you think you can,

Baby, can you dig your man?

Dig him baby-

Baby, can you dig your man?"


End file.
